


Counting Stars

by inhalethedark



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anne is so awful, Child Neglect, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Famous Louis, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexual Content, Sugar Baby Harry, Sugar Daddy Louis, This sounds scarier than it really is, zarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1966368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inhalethedark/pseuds/inhalethedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's lost in a man-made ocean with dark waves and even darker demons trying to pull him under. He's drowning, wondering when his last breath will come. Louis just wants the heat and the pleasure; he doesn't want four letter words or feelings the next morning. He wants to visit the sea, swim in it, feel the salt on his tongue, and leave before the tide takes him away. </p><p>(Or, Harry has issues and addictions, Louis doesn't want emotions or commitments, but they're both running from something, fighting down secrets that don't want to be hidden. Somehow, in the midst of everything, they find each other.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hiding Once Again

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, wow. This is my baby, my first born, as a certain someone would say. I've worked so hard on this story, and I still am, but damn, it was just the right time to put it out there. 
> 
> It's a rather heavy story, and I understand it won't be a popular cup of tea, but that's alright. PLEASE just read the tags so you don't read something that will make you uncomfortable, or worse, something that might trigger you. I'd hate for that to happen. 
> 
> ALSO, this first chapter is rather heavy in a sense - Harry's quite complicated, and it might not all make sense, which believe it or not, is the point to a certain extent. 
> 
> To my love poopyface, Jessica, who was there when I first thought of this work through kik messages, and saw it evolve into this grand monster. I love you!)
> 
> Disclaimer: This is just a piece of fiction.

* * *

Hiding Once Again

 

It almost startles him back to reality, if that were possible. It’s suddenly beating so fast, so loud; it throbs in his eardrums, drowning out a remix blaring from speakers all around the room. His heart is beating. It’s beatingbeatingbeating and he tries to stand as still as possible, ignoring his overwhelming pulse and the bodies that push and shove into him with their  sloshing drinks, and just places a trembling hand over the middle of his chest.

There it is—an irregular thump shouting against his ribcage, and _wow_ , Harry is sure he has never felt more alive. His body is working hard, pumping blood to his heart, sending it up and down veins and arteries with signals from his brain. He’s alive, he’s _alive_ , and he wants to shout it into the buzzing room and somehow, on shaky knees, make his way onto the rooftop and shout it loud and bright into the night sky. Someone— _someone_ has to hear about this.

But it’s funny, the feeling. The feeling of being so alive and free and hyped that he wants to shout and jump off the roof just for shits and giggles, yet so fucking dead. So tired. So overwhelmed and caged.

The thought makes him snort _, caged_.

He can’t see clearly; it’s like someone placed a rainbow dotted veil over his eyes, and no matter how many times he blinks, or how many times his eyes drag open, he can’t see without colourful spots. His heart is still beating its fast, uneven rhythm like the Kanye West song blaring through dozens of Bose speakers purposely scattered around the room.

_“I am a God, even though I’m a man of God. My whole life is in the hands of God. So y’all better quit playing with God.”_

As the hour goes on, he’s still standing the middle of the room—a living room, it seems, with leather couches and a large flat screen and a shattered vase—with a hand pressed over his heart, with drinks spilled over his once-pristine white scoop neck. He probably smells like a disgusting concoction of vodka, sweet sodas, pot, and cough syrup. He can feel it, though, his heartbeat, with every drunk roar, every shot thrown back with haste, every unknown hand pressing down onto the low of his sweaty back, arms wrapping around his abdomen with confidence, with every body that grabs him and takes him and possesses him for just a couple minutes until there is someone new, someone who wants to take a piece of him, too. 

Someone who can grin afterwards and say _Harry Styles totally groped my arse_.

It’s there, his heart beat, and it doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. He wants to call up his mum, he realises, patting down his jean pockets with no avail, and tell her how he forgives her, how his heart is still going, how he hopes her heart beats, too, no matter how small and stony it maybe.

“It’s th-three forty-five,” someone grabs his arms and slurs at him.

He nods at her, but he isn’t too sure what he asked her in the first place. He can’t seem to willingly open his mouth. Harry’s pretty damn sure that his brain is shrinking with ever sip of the bright purple syrup in his white, Styrofoam cup, ‘cause he can’t seem to stop thinking about _cages_ and _birds_ , and maybe he’s a bird, with ragged, brown feathers. But Harry shakes his head, making the tall lad with muck-water colour eyes and a tight grip on his hips throw him a confused look.

Really, he’s just a rich kid with too much free time, a large collection of futile, expensive cars (how fast can you _really_ go down Bayswater Road in a Ferrari 1961 California?), shit friends with superb party skills, and a—plausible, mind you—drug habit. Harry doesn’t know any better, and probably never will. He’s not sure if he’s okay with that, with this life he leads, but he’s too out of his mind to go looking for answers, and there’s a dick being grinded against his thigh, so yes, fuck the answers. 

+

He ends up underneath the tall guy with the ugly, dirty-dishwater coloured eyes. It’s not enjoyable, it hurts actually with only two fingers in before the guy enters him, his ass throbbing uncomfortably, beating almost as loud as his heart. The guy doesn’t even kiss him, not even _before_ he gets down on his knees for him, and Harry finds it incredibly rude. He understands not wanting to stick your tongue down the same throat that your dick was in, but still.

He only opens up his eyes once the lad pulls out of him and rolls over on his back, letting out a big sigh. Harry looks up in surprise and scoots backwards to lean against the headboard, wincing. He can’t remember coming, or even being able to get his dick hard, but sure enough his prick is red and flat against his thigh and there are white streaks over his stomach, on the large butterfly tattooed there.

“Thanks for that,” the nameless guy with the ugly eyes says, patting him weakly on the thigh before stretching his arms out and stumbling out of the bed. “I really needed that, yeah? ‘M glad it’s summer. Hey, you’re Harry Styles, aren’t you? Heard about you, you crazy lad. Great shag you, even if you’re so fucked up right now.” It looks like he laughs loudly, but Harry can’t be sure—he doesn’t hear any laughter, can only watch with blank eyes as the bloke opens his mouth and babbles while putting his kit on.

He watches through his rainbow-dotted veil as the lad pulls on his shirt and walks out the door without another glance his way. He feels he’s been a bit rude, ignoring him during the last few minutes, but what’s done is done. Harry looks down at his body, naked, dirty, spread out unimaginably on unknown sheets on an unknown bed in an unknown room that sits in an unknown’s house. He stands on shaky legs and picks up his black jeans with trembling hands, digging into the pockets before finding a crinkled pack of reds and a disposable BIC lighter.

It’s rude to smoke in someone’s home without their permission, and Harry doesn’t even know whose party he’s at, be he’s tired of being a bad guest, so he sticks his head out the open window and smiles slightly at the flat tiles. Rooftops are his favourite. He yanks the large, cool comforter from the bed, thankful that there are no wet spots, and drapes it over his person, before stumbling out onto the roof with a tight grip on the fags.

He’s out there for what seems hours, smoking fag after fag, when someone from below yells out his name and Harry only sees a flash of purple before that person is gone. Everything seems to come and go in flashes and small instances nowadays.

+

He’s in the basement at exactly five twenty-eight. He’s not too sure how, but there are people smoking heavily while old Britney videos play on the plasma TV, and he sits himself down in a tight spot, in between a ginger boy and a white girl with purple dreads, sitting quietly before the girl pulls out her mobile and looks at him directly before telling the time. Five twenty-eight.

Harry’s sure, pretty damn sure, that he didn’t even open his mouth to speak, but it seems everywhere he goes—from the bathroom to the living room to the kitchen to the hallway and now to the basement—people keep telling him the time. He doesn’t want to know the bloody time, he’d rather get lost in it. Is he asking for the time?

“You’re Harry, right?” the girl asks with a steady voice. He can only nod. He doesn’t trust his voice anymore, his mouth. “There’s a Zayn bloke looking for ya, mate. He sends this.” She leans over and picks up a Styrofoam cup with his name scrawled in purple Sharpie on the side. It has a tight lid on it and a half-covered straw. “Gave me twenty quid to give this to ya, so here.” She shoves the drink in his hands and sits up from the couch, pulling the ginger boy up with her.

The liquid is a soft pink this time, Harry discovers. A few sips of it slow his heart down from its erratic beating, and his breaths start coming in short puffs and huffs, chest tight and uncomfortable, and his body starts quivering. Doesn’t Zayn know he loves to hear his heart thump? Doesn’t he want him to stay alive? He leaves the drink on the coffee table for someone else to enjoy and presses his palm against his chest. He needs to beat again.

+

He can’t hear anything but his own name being chanted. It’s so loud; he can’t hear anything else, nothing at all. Where has the music gone? There’s a ceiling fan whirling fast above his head, creating paint-like strokes of red and black, surely it must make some noise. Why can’t he hear anything but _Harry_?

He doesn’t know if the people surrounding him, sitting like jittery little bugs on a large leather couch, watching him expectantly, are shouting his name in off-tune, high pitches, or maybe it’s just all inside his head. Their mouths, glossy and stained rose from Ace of Spades, aren’t moving to the rhythm of _harryharryharryharryharry_. They’re just flashes of colour, moving so quickly, he can’t possibly keep up.He just doesn’t know, can’t think, and that’s okay. It’s always okay.

The room spins and it’s probably the whole world falling of its’ axis, rolling around the endless galaxy like a beach ball on waves, but then he’s leaning down with a big manic grin plastered on his face, and he picks up a tightly wrapped tenner, covers up one nostril, inhales,  and it’s close to heaven.

The first hit is always the same—always the usual, slow, numbing sensation that starts in the little spot in between his brows.  It’s a bit like centripetal acceleration, because the curves of this drug, this roller coaster, are shooting down, making their way with rapid speed through his bloodstream, ignoring the straight lines of his veins, and then there it is. The first line has hit home, the ride is over, and Harry’s just left numb. There’s no gravity holding him down, keeping him grounded on Earth.

His eyes close and he’s ready. He’s ready, readyreadyready, but he doesn’t know what for. He’s drunk and cold, but sweating toxic, and it’s best for him to just get it over with—the second, the third, the fourth hit—because everyone who is anyone is watching the spectacle that he is, and, everyone who is anyone knows Harry Styles doesn’t have the word _no_ in his vocabulary. It’s only _yes yes yes!_

The second hit is easy, it’s fast, and it’s clean.

The third hit. The third hit is nothing but nirvana. Bliss is wrapping itself around his bones, seeping into each crack caused by lingering hands, desperate kisses, low groans, lonely mornings, but there is no one to blame but himself for their beings.  There is nothing in the world Harry can’t do and can’t be. He laughs and it’s stupid, because just a few seconds, minutes, hours ago the world was falling of its’ axis, but now Harry is the one to make it spin. 

He’s in his own paradise edition, where everything is pink and gold and buzzing, where there are bodies who want to know his own, lazy smiles that want to match his own, where he is a fucking God and this is his fucking heaven, and the wet lips pressing suddenly against his pulse are just another sign of felicity.

The lips pull away and he’s in a kitchen, leaning against a cold, stainless steel surface. The people with the rose stained lips are gone along with the couch and the white dust that makes his eyes see-through, _glass_ , like the bottom of the yacht they use during summer hols.  Instead there are new people, new minds, and new lips wet from alcohol, surrounding him, laughing, and he can’t remember any of their names. Did he ever know their names?

Warm hands are grabbing him, holding on tight, and covering a fern on his hip, on his now burning skin. But wasn’t he floating off in space just a bit ago? Wasn’t he circling the earth, unable to touch down, unbeknownst to the term _gravity_? He’s fairly certain that he was in his kingdom, but now his neck is being grabbed by a thin, tan hand, and he’s being pulled closer to those dark lips. They meet and Harry sighs in relief; he feels at home, he can remember this touch.

When he pulls back to breathe, it’s like his eyes have been replaced by kaleidoscope lenses, with the way Zayn’s face is in dozens of sharp-cheeked triangles, maybe even more, but it’s beautiful. He’s captivated, hypnotized, by his eyes, by the way they are quick as they glint around his face, thick and dark like caramel being stirred in a pot; dangerous and wickedly sweet.

“Thought I’d lost you,” Zayn confesses lowly, before popping a lolly between his lips. His tongue is circling over the head, dark and glossy matching the cherry stain of his lips. He pulls it out with a plop and he’s hallowing his cheeks in, sucking on the round sweet, never moving his eyes from Harry’s. “But you are so gone right now.”

He doesn’t know when his ears reconnected to his brain, but they’re abruptly only focusing on Zayn; Zayn is the only thing that broadcasts clear and loud. He should be used to this—he should be familiar with Zayn’s antics, and heaven knows he’s not so innocent himself. They’re best mates with no regards towards boundaries when it comes to one another, but everything is simple and clean; nothing Harry would change for the world. Their relationship, _friendship_ , is dysfunctional, and wrong and right.

Zayn is still his _Zain_ : his best mate who had chubby cheeks, not sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw sporting three days worth of stubble; his mate who he loved to hug, all baby fat and roundness, not flat planes and thin structures; his best mate who was addicted to recreating scenes out of his favourite Spiderman cartoons in his sketch pad and would read Harry parts of Macbeth when he couldn’t sleep, not one who smokes a pack a day and collects tattoos like they used to collect comic books.

But Harry really isn’t one to talk, is he? They still are best friends over all, brothers, and maybe it’s because they have almost everything in common. They had to grow up eventually, but maybe, Harry can’t help but think, they didn’t do it in the greatest of ways. It’s okay, it’s _okay_.

There’s a gasp and Harry can’t be sure if he’s the one who made the noise, but Zayn looks rather occupied giving the lolly kitten licks, eyes looking up through lush lashes, and there’s a sudden rush through his body, the blood rushing down his arteries protests at the electricity takeover. He snatches the candy out of Zayn’s hand and plops it into his own mouth, wincing at the cough syrup taste that clashes with the bitter of his last shot, and bites down into it, the candy breaking into sharp pieces on his tongue.

Zayn’s eyes are expanded wide, the black of his pupil leaving the just a ring of dirty honey, and Harry wonders if his look the same. Really, they’re both wasted, but Harry knows he’s in a much worse state than his mate. He’s leaning over to bite at Zayn’s ear and words are slipping out of his lips like he’s licking laxatives, his mind hasn’t even caught up with the events that happened just merely five minutes ago, and— “You know, c-candy is dandy, but liquor is—is quicker,” he slurs.

He’s missed Zayn so much; he’s missed him so much that his bones ached in the mornings and his yellow-stained fingernails almost brought him to tears.

Zayn pulls back with an eye roll. “Really? Willy Wonka?”

“Wil-Willy Wonka—legend. He’s a legend—Niall will think. So.”

Zayn disagrees and reaches out, arm brushing up against Harry’s side, for the half-empty bottle of Jack. “Niall thinks everyone’s a fucking legend, babes.” He grabs the bottle by the neck and gulps it down, small streams of whisky rolling down from his mouth to his neck.

Harry nods and struggles to keeps his head from lolling to the side. He tries to talk, to reply, but he’s a blubbering mess, lips slipping around, tongue caught. He can only look up at Zayn hopelessly and ignore the electricity frying him inside out. He grabs Zayn’s hands and with struggle places them on his chest. “C-can you f-feel? Hea-art?”

Zayn’s face flashes blue and then white before he’s back to normal, and Harry doesn’t understand what that means. But no, Zayn doesn’t feel anything, just frowns and shakes his head no, looking at Harry with what can only be described as concern. He’s a bit concerned, too, Harry is—what if he’s _not_ alive? What if it’s all a bit joke or misunderstanding, or his mind is playing tricks on him, and all this time there hasn’t actually been a beating, thumping, unreliable heart underneath Harry’s fingertips, hidden like a wild beast in the cage that are his ribs?

“Does it matter?” Zayn asks, head cocked to the side.

Of course it does, of course it _matters_. How can his best mate not care? “W-what,” Harry croaks. “What?”

“Does it really matter what time it is? Why do you care, we’ll be going home soon, anyway, H.”

Harry can’t speak any longer, can’t make out any words. Zayn understands, somehow, and nods, caressing a thin finger against his flushed cheek.

Zayn’s wet lips press hard against his own abruptly, his eyes close automatically, and he sinks into the feeling of his favourite warm body leaning firm against him. Everything is loud around him—voices buzzing like bees, making him want to swat at his ears, but his hands lock around a thin waist, and there are lips, dark and plump, tasting like pure whiskey on his, and for just this little moment in time everything is okay.

It doesn’t matter that he feels like he’s going out of his fucking mind, that his blood is burning him like fingers touching a lit matchstick. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t, and the more he tells himself that, the more he struggles to believe it. He doesn’t want to run away anymore, doesn’t want to hide.

“You’re a sight for the angels, right now, Harry,” Zayn whispers against his lips. “I think you _are_ an angel; only Botticelli could’ve created something so perfect.”

 

 

“Be good, sweetheart, please.”

Harry widens his eyes comically and scoffs, “When am I not good? I’m a fucking angel.”

 He leans against the railing of the balcony, looking down to the expansive yard filled with big, white, open tents where people with too much money, too much pride, and too many dim, narrow-minded convictions are mingling, holding flutes of fresh bubbly. A random image of him jumping of the third story balcony to the cement patio below flashes through his mind, and he wonders if at the last minute he would sprout wings and fly like a mutant, , a bird, an angel.

“Darling, listen to me,” Anne presses her lips down together in irritation. Her dark hair is pinned back tightly, her face still is young and smooth aside from a few crows’ feet which have her constantly complaining and pinching at, but like Harry, her eyes are guarded and cold. Grey to green, green to grey. Harry wonders when the last time he saw his mum with her hair loose, with no make up, with a real smile, was. He can’t remember.

She sighs and takes a small sip of her champagne. “You know this is a big deal. Don’t mess this up for me.”

He remembers being five, hair flat and ashy blond, but with the same big frog eyes, sitting alone in a busy diner in Holmes Chapel, a Spiderman colouring book sitting in front of him. His mum would bring him small plates of crisps and the other waitresses would coo at him, pinch his cheeks, and tell him how much he resembled his mother. He used to get that a lot— _you look so much like your mummy! Such a little sweetheart. He’s the cutest thing, Anne._ He used to gleam with pride and say thank you, like a good boy.

But he looks at her, 15 years later, in an olive, vintage Prada gown (that cost her three weeks of a very strict diet consisting of only crackers and cubes of cheese to fit into), scowling at a waiter who snuck a sip of the Salon Blanc chardonnay, with mumbles of _so fired_ and _inappropriate_ underneath her breath, and knows that they don’t bear a resemblance to each other anymore. Harry _really doesn’t know this woman anymore_ , in fact, he can’t recall a time when he did.

Harry can’t forgive her for what she did all those years ago. He can’t, and that small action, that enormous grudge, haunts him. It doesn’t matter what he says when he’s pissed out of his mind, it doesn’t matter that she doesn’t pick up his drunken phone calls at four in the morning anymore. He won’t forgive, much less forget.

“Don’t mess this up for _you_?”                                                                                                      

“Oh, darling,” Anne raises her eyebrows, and he always finds the way she says addresses him incredibly condescending. “Sweetie, this is a _big_ deal for all of us.” She sets her now empty flute on the banister and waves an arm towards the crowd below. “They’re all here to celebrate with us.”

It is a _big_ deal, Harry agrees—a stupid, but none the less, big deal.

There’s a perky, blonde reporter cursing softly on the grand lawn, her annoyed face is slapped off in seconds and replaced by a toothy grin as she’s told they’re recording, but when her four inch heels sink deeper into the lush grass she hastily throws her microphone down and tries to walk away gracefully. The cameraman just continues and spins around, recording the reception, zooming in on Gemma who’s all smiles and cheerfulness. The man even stops and zooms up at Anne and Harry on the third floor balcony.

Gemma was always the better actor of them both; Harry memorized all her smiles and grins and panicked, loud laughs when he was a young child. He can tell. But his mum can’t; Anne can’t tell the way she shies away from the man holding on tightly to her waist, she can’t tell that her new lilac hair is just an act of rebellion, that her new-found recklessness and continuous clubbing at twenty-three is a different type of scream for attention. She much less knows about the eighteen year old boy in a punk-rock band that Gemma sees every night, the one that writes songs about her colourful hair and bright eyes and broken heart.

Everything is over the top. Everything is flashy: the large crystal chandeliers hanging from the tops of the massive, white, silk tents; the round tables are covered with white, silk and lace tablecloths, and adorned with bunches of white roses in tall, glass vases. Even the guests are gaudy with their couture gowns and Hugo Boss suits and uncomfortable shoes and faux smiles.

But Gemma, Harry notices, Gemma is the worst of them all. Looking around he knows this isn’t what his only sister asked for, and he wants to laugh—when did this become their life? Forced engagements to hot-shot sons of big political figures? Receptions held in the gardens of their _mansion_? Everything is so _white_ , so clean and pure and innocent—everything they’re not.

Last he knew, at age eight, she wanted to marry John Stamos in Disneyland. He did, too.

“Harry Twist!” Anne’s sharp tone snaps him out from his stare down with the bubbles in his abandoned flute.

He bites down on his lip, _he’s going to be an angel today_ , and doesn’t say anything about the unwanted last name. _Styles._ He’ll always be Styles no matter how many times he has to correct his teachers, no matter how many times his step-father shakes his head and clicks his tongue in disagreement, no matter how many times his own mother brings up the adoption back when he was ten.

“What are those boys doing here? Those friends of yours are such trouble!”

“Anne, don’t start,” Harry rolls his eyes. He sees his lot making their way through, loud and chaotic, laughing at the surprised faces of the help as they each grab a bottle of wine, ignoring the delicate flutes on the trays. He’s tired of the same conversation. _Why are you friends with those trouble makers? Bad influences, that bunch. This is why you’re always in inappropriate dilemmas, Harry. What will everyone think!_

He hasn’t been able to figure out exactly who _everyone_ is, and by now Harry just can’t muster it in himself to give a damn.

Anne turns her glare on him. “If you, _any_ of you, screw up _one_ thing, Har—I swear.” It doesn’t really scare Harry anymore, the threats. Empty promises, a slap on the wrist, or the cheek, harsh words on his stupidity and naivety, his recklessness—nothing new.

“I thought you wouldn’t have minded—Maura is here,” Harry adds. He shoots a glance down at the reception, biting back a laugh as several heads turn to glare at a lad with a mountain of blond hair, yelling for his mummy, Maura. The short, thin lady gives her son a stern look and turns back to her fellow socialites. “And you know I can’t just invite _Niall_ and not invite _Zayn_. Besides, this is the first time I’ll see them since we got back from uni,” he lies.

“No,” Anne disagrees, “No, I don’t know why you couldn’t have just brought Niall. I don’t approve of that Zayn boy, sweetie. Niall, yes, has a drinking problem, and heaven knows he can’t hide the pure stench of _marijuana_ , but he’s the son of a _friend_. A good friend, at that. The Malik boy, on the other hand...” Her lips purse in discontent towards the darker lad, watching with stern eyes as Zayn flirts with a waiter and lays a hand on his arm.

_What?_

“What?” Harry is taken aback. “Wasn’t Trisha Malik in the sunroom for tea just last weekend? I swear she was, I—“

“Don’t swear, boy.”

“—saw her there, Zayn came along, too. I thought you were friends.”

Anne huffs in annoyance and a look Harry’s much familiar with flashes on her thin face. He sees it when he stands in front of the mirror and looks at himself with disgust. No surprise that she finds her son disgusting—he looks just like his biological father, after all. He knows she’s had enough of Harry’s questions and bad acquaintances, and if she doesn’t go down and mingle as a good hostess people will assume she does not approve of the engagement, which couldn’t be furthest from the truth.

“Patricia Malik is no longer invited here after a—a heated discussion during tea in which she _proudly_ conversed about her son’s _homosexuality_.” She tucks a lose strand behind her ear, fingers lingering on the large Cartier diamond studs. “As you know, sweetie, we do _not_ support that. We do not engage in activities, such as tea, with people like that.”

_We do not support that._

_We do not engage in activities with people like that._

Support _that_ , people like _that_.

“But, he’s my best mate,” he weakly mumbles to his mother’s back as they make their way down the old, creaky spiral staircase to the main floor of the library. “You used to order Claudia to make us biscuits after school.”

“Yes, sweetheart, but things happen. Zayn isn’t that little boy anymore, he’s chosen to be a homosexual now, or a bisexual—which is a load of shit, pardon me; either you like women or you don’t, black and white, no gray— and that changes the matter of things.” Her flute is swinging in her left hand gleefully, while her right has a white-knuckle grip on the banister. “Besides, I’m sure you’ve made several new, better-off friends in university.”

No, he hasn’t actually. They all know who he is, how much he’s worth, and that kinda puts a damper on the whole True Friendship thing, especially when they all just like to see him drunk off his arse. _Sober Harry is not a fun Harry!_ Besides, it doesn’t matter—he’s not going back, something he’s not going to mention anytime soon.

He also doesn’t bring up her shaky legs, her fast, snappy responses, or the way her lips kept twitching on the balcony, but he does wonder when replacing toast and tea with caffeine pills for breakfast became a habit. Harry’s not stupid. He has eyes, he has ears, he _knows_ Anne has her own demons; he’s known since he was a child.

He has a book by Rachel Cohn in his dresser and a certain paragraph plagues his mind. He’s highlighted this paragraph over and over, so many times with many different colours, that it’s almost hard to see the fine print below. But he knows it by heart. ‘ _They were tricky, those demons. Could they be trusted? Of course they could be trusted. She’d created them. She owned them. They wouldn’t lead her astray.’_

Anne continues, “I’d rather you not see that boy anymore, sweetie.”

 She created them. She owned them. They wouldn’t lead her astray, they couldn’t; she owned them.

But it isn’t that way for Harry—he may have created them, but they own every single blood cell in his body and every little crack in his bones and every gap of air in his soul.

They’re at the end of the hallway now, the early June sunlight is casting its’ rays among his pale jaw, on her chestnut hair. They can see the guests in the garden through the opened French doors, in the tents, smiling, congratulating the _happy couple_ , laughing. They can see Zayn, who’s not oblivious to the dirty looks being shot his way, looking like an exotic Italian model in his black Klein suit, and Niall who snatches another cava flute and gulps it down like water in the Sahara.

Anne shakes out her right arm, smoothes down her gown, and holds her head up high. Her back is to her son, but he already knows the grin plastered on her face. He can see it, even from behind; like her body is translucent and it’s glowing through—the way her lips pull up, the lines around them. Her teeth glare white pearls in the sun. He knows her better than she’d want, better than he’d want.

Is it possible, somehow, to know every bit of someone—to know their quirks and the faces they pull and the way their mouths turn a certain way at someone’s glee—and at the same time know _nothing_ —not the war that rages behind their eyes, not the way their thoughts jerk at them in the mornings, not the way their demons pull and yank at their strings. Is that possible? Is it possible to know someone so well that you hardly know them at all? Is it possible to know _nothing_?

Harry thinks of just this morning, when the sky was a deep, royal blue ocean with fields of lavender and Zayn’s fingers were gripping madly around his waist, his bare skin glistening with sweat, sliding against his own. The way the air would mix together—a bittersweet combination of whiskey and cherry and emptiness and need.

He wants to know if his mum will support _him_ , if she would have tea with _him_ , even though his lips are bruised red and there are painful, red scratches on his back from blunt nails. What would she think if she knew he let a male be inside him, touch him, use him? No, it’s stupid to think that, because Zayn is a _people like that_ and Harry is a _people like that_ , and of course his own mum wouldn’t support him, wouldn’t welcome him into her arms like Trisha Malik; wouldn’t run the risk out of being kicked out of book club, of being shunned at the country club, at being bunked down from PTA president at Connor’s college.

“Dear, come along now, we’ve not got to keep your sister waiting.”

 _Dear, sweetheart, darling, sweetie_. Never _Harry_ , never honest; he’s positive his mother hasn’t spoken his name in ten years.

+

“You know,” Niall starts, rolling a fresh, stiff note tightly. “There’s a pattern here—with you, Zayn.” The blond meets Harry’s green eyes and sends him a crooked smile. “Harry? Do you want?”

“No, no, I-I need my head a bit clear tonight,” Harry replies and thanks him for the offer. The beautifully cut dust is calling out his name, chanting in his ears, and a sense of déjà vu passes over him. He can’t, shouldn’t.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Zayn lowers himself onto the ground and thumps his head against the wall, sliding down next to Harry.

“It’s just that,” Niall stops and leans down to inhale once, twice. When he comes back up he smiles sweetly and nods towards the door, where the waiter who Zayn was flirting with earlier had just escaped from. “Have you noticed that your last recent conquests have all, well, looked the same?”

Harry can’t say he is all around surprised that Zayn had dragged the waiter up to a bathroom the second he could. It’s not part of their ‘relationship’, or whatever it’s called—relationship just isn’t the right word. He doesn’t care who Zayn fucks around with, doesn’t care whose throat the boy sticks his tongue down—he doesn’t; they’re friends first, friends _with benefits_ second. No jealously is why it works so well.

Zayn frowns, “That’s not true. Harry doesn’t look at all like this guy.” He nudges the lad with his toe again. “Look at these long curls; ‘m surprised Anne hasn’t gone totally mad.” He reaches out and finger combs through the dark locks.

Harry shrugs and leans into the touch. “She’ll want them gone by the time the wedding rolls around,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, but H, my good mate, isn’t a conquest. Not a lot of conquest-ing going on, yeah? You and Harry have been doing—whatever it is that you’re doing for years now, before you went off to the X-Factor. No need for conquest-ing. And when you came back...” Niall widens his eyes innocently and shrugs, completely ignoring the hair topic. “Something happened there mate.”

Harry frowns at Zayn. The thin boy meets his eyes with raised brows and Harry just shrugs. They both know that he didn’t tell Niall anything, wouldn’t. It’s not like Zayn doesn’t want to tell their other best mate, he does, and Harry knows this. It actually feels a bit odd, keeping Niall out of the loop—they tell each other everything. But it’s not his secret to tell, no matter how weird it feels.

 “The only fucking thing that happened was that I lost in front of millions, bloody fucking embarrassing. Now help me get up, my leg fell asleep,” Zayn snaps, avoiding Niall’s eyes, and kicks out a leg with a grimace.

Harry speaks up. “Let’s just smoke and get back to the party before Anne starts wondering.”

“No one wants?” Niall asks, holding up a small pink, opaque baggy and shakes it lightly. He stuffs it in the secure pocket inside his suit and goes to sit on the toilet lid.

“I think we should make a toast.” Zayn raises a clear sandwich bag he quickly pulled out from his side pocket. He hands each lad a nicely rolled joint and throws Niall his plain, generic lighter, knowing he wouldn’t have brought his own, forgetful as usual. Harry on the other hand is already fishing his from the inner pocket of his black suit, a bedazzled pink Zippo adorned with a big purple letter H, with pride. When Niall had bought him it for his fourteenth birthday, no one actually thought he would go ahead and use it.

Harry pulls Zayn in by the waist when the lad finally stands and drags them towards Niall, both of them stumbling into the bathtub, shuffling around until they’re sitting comfortably practically on one another; hips side by side, legs on legs, arms brushing. He makes grabby hand at the bottle of Magnum Grey Goose forgotten on the counter.

Niall reluctantly stands and brings over the vodka, opting to sit on the edge of the tub now. “What we gonna toast to?”

Zayn places his chin on Harry’s shoulder, he hadn’t actually thought to _what_ they should toast for, it just seemed like a good opportunity. “We each get something, fair?”

“Alright,” Niall nods, flicking his thumb against the spark wheel; the flickering blue, yellow, white flames reflecting on his pale blue eyes. He brings the lighter to the spliff, holding on the roach and lights it. “To the best summer yet! And to gettin’ laid, ‘course.”

“That’s two,” Zayn mumbles. “And you H?”

Harry has a little wrinkle in-between his brows, his mouth set downward, but his burning spliff is joining Niall’s in the air, raised. “To sanity and happiness, and even if it’s an impossible combination, to love, with no regrets, no matter how shit it gets.”

“I didn’t miss your melodramatic ways,” Zayn rolls his eyes and Harry sends him a big smile, cuddling into his side. “To the best summer of our lives, before we go on our separate ways again. I’ve missed you lads.” he snatches the bottle from Harry’s grip and swings it in the air.

They sit in silence smoking and taking mouthfuls from the Grey Goose, Zayn sneaking a couple hits of Harry’s without even bothering to look towards Niall—everyone knows the Irish lad doesn’t share; Harry learned it the hard way in year seven with  a plate of crisps. The silence is comfortable like always and the smoke fills the spacey bathroom, and everything is familiar and homey and just _nice_. The fact that they only have a month and a half before they head off to uni again is trying to settle in Harry’s stomach, but he won’t let it. He wants it to sink deep into the acid filling the pit of his stomach, to become ashes of something that once was.

 He doesn’t want them to leave him again.

And it’s just that, really—them leaving him. Niall has that legacy at Cambridge to fulfil and everyone knows Zayn is working hard, cooped up in his art studio at NYU at all hours of the day, and him? He’s just fucked. He won’t lose them at once, no, it’s worse: gradually. With promises of Skype calls and texts and _I’ll see you at home for the hols!_ Harry doesn’t want to even think about what he’d do without Niall, or Zayn.

They didn’t lose contact last year; it was most likely just the shock factor of being so far apart from each, for such a long time, for the first time in _forever_ that kept them manically texting one another. And there were days when Zayn wouldn’t reply, and if he did it’d be at five am UK time. They fell into each other so easily again in the beginning of summer, like no one had left in the first place, that it almost lights a spark of hope in him, but he doesn’t want to dwell on it.

Everything’s so frightening without his mates, without the burn in his blood. His fingers jerk in reply, automatically willing to reach for anything that will urge that boil is his bloodstream. His mates are doing things and going places, unlike him—the only reason he’s didn’t completely fail school was because he had enough money to pay someone to do his homework for him and he’s a shameless flirt, a complete charmer, so having a couple teachers wrapped around his pinkie didn’t hurt, either. But he’s not going back anymore.

Niall fidgets besides him, fingers twitching and legs bouncing up and down as the coke makes its way through his bloodstream, something that Harry finds fascinating; for him, the drug tends to slow him down while his heart feels like it’s ready to jump out, make him more aware, more alert, but for Niall, it seems to be the opposite way—it makes him bounce of the walls and almost jump off the terrace. It livens him up, and he knows that with the weed plus the coke, Niall only has a few minuets left before going ballistic and ordering they all go jump into the Thames for fun.

The spliff in his hand is quickly burning out and he’s disappointed to feel nothing but a low buzz in the back of his head, like that of an aeroplane, but he knows he downed two xanys about an hour ago, and he can’t go too hard or else Anne will skin him.

Niall is singing something under his breath, his accent strong and warm and _home_. Without Niall everything is frightening, Harry knows. He watches his short friend, sitting on the toilet again with the top down, Zayn’s bottle of Goose in his light grip, with his Everest Mountain-like blond quiff. He thinks back when his hair was more yellow and thicker, and certainly flat, and how Niall never hesitated to grab his hand after they snuck out at their pyjama party to go see the ‘babes’ his big brother had promised wondered the streets after midnight when Harry admitted to being scared of the dark.

They had been a stupid lot, Niall and Harry. They were eleven and bored inside their big, empty mansions, tired of being brats with the help, and definitely (a little) bored of playing Mario on the X-Cube. They’d been pestering Greg, Niall’s older brother, and he gave them the, at the time, _wonderful_ idea of sneaking out to see the fit girls that always came out to party after midnight.  Greg hadn’t actually thought they’d go through with it. And they hadn’t, of course, thought of hookers.

He’s not sure if he didn’t like girls back then, either.

But yet there they were, the two eleven year olds, holding hands walking down the dark streets of London on a Thursday night during Christmas holidays, slipping on thick blankets of snow, hidden under designer Michelin Man-like coats and wool Burberry scarves. They wandered around for two hours before giving up, huddling together while Niall rang his peacefully sleeping parents on a corner payphone.

They don’t bring it up a lot, but Harry won’t forget it. He only remembers being cold and Niall’s warm, chubby hand gripping his through knitted mittens. “Scary with you is better than scary without you,” Niall had puffed out through a sheet of cold wind after Harry cried silently, the wet tracks on his face becoming icy, admitting to being scared.

Harry kind of knew at the point that maybe being in big, bad London wasn’t going to be so awful if he had someone like Niall. That maybe he could get through with living with a new father-figure that had not once tried to touch him wrong yet, and his mom not talking to him except about his school grades or his uneaten spinach; and maybe with Niall he wouldn’t notice the nursery being decorated in light shades of mint at the end of his hallway so much, either.

+

The party is in full swing now. The guests are moving around, complimenting the jazz band performing, and still sipping the ridiculously overpriced cava. It seems like they’ve missed the dinner, Harry notes, as the help are clearing off the tables. Niall has a few, slurred, but stern, words to say about that. He had heard rumours of lobster. They split up again; Zayn to find Perrie, a pink haired bird with a reputation of doing uni blokes in the back of her white G-Wagon, making flower crowns, and carrying around sparkly stickers, placing them in the most random spots; the daughter of some singer who chats with Anne about shit like Monet and Pilates.

He’s wandering around aimlessly avoiding those aunts that can’t keep their old, wrinkly lips to themselves and the blonde news reporter who had come up to him to ask about the _big deal_ engagement twice in the span of thirty minuets. His button up is too tight around the collar, choking him, but he knows Anne would only have stern words and _what would everyone think_ , so he’d rather avoid her at all cost. And even the obscene amounts of _Blu de Chanel_ wouldn’t be enough to cover the pot that possibly lingers on him from Anne’s hound dog nose.

“Harry! There you are, son.”

He doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s Robin and that he’s with someone he’s trying hard to impress. He’s had plenty of years to recognize the fake smile in his voice and the choice of his wording—he never calls Harry _son_ unless he needs to impress someone, to make them believe in the sanity of family.  According to him, and Robin, the latter only has two real sons—his oldest son Mark, and Connor.

When he turns around he tries to capture everything but he doesn’t know where to look first (there’s so much to _see_ ) or for how long (he could possibly fucking stare for _hours_ ), because the man in front of him is something more than beautiful, something more than striking. His eyes try to take everything in, but the weed and the shitty downers plus the sips of vodka are slowing him down, hyping him up, slowing his senses to a blur and adding lightning to his bloodstream, and damn he’s usually happy for that, but he doesn’t know how long he has been staring at a pair of eyes so fucking clear and blue and amused.

For the first time in years he’s asking himself why he’s not fucking sober.

“This is Louis Tomlinson.”

Yeah, _obviously._

Robin clears his throat and repeats himself, face flushed with embarrassment. “Uh, son, this is Louis Tomlinson. Don’t be rude, now.”

Harry’s eyes snap away from thin, _pinkpinkpink_ amused lips to meet Robin’s disgruntled face. _What?_ Louis Tomlinson, right. He recognizes him from telly, and the rags his mum has laying around in the sun room seem to love him. He’s well known in Europe, famous in Britain, for his music and his record company. And he’s fucking fit as hell, Harry thinks.

Louis Tomlinson stretches out a hand—a dainty, tan hand with short, thin fingers and Harry swallows it with his own large, calloused hand with long digits pale as winter. It’s just that; summer and winter, spring and autumn, hot and cold. “It’s lovely to meet you..?

Robin speaks before Harry can address himself, before he can embarrass himself even further by squeaking his name out like he hadn’t hit puberty years ago. He mentally thanks Robin for being there; otherwise he mightn’t have been able to keep the moan threatening to bubble out of his slippery, hindering throat at the sound of Louis Tomlinson speaking high and low, soft and hard. Funny how fast he can drown and resurface all at once.

“This is Harry _Twist_ , my eldest son.”

Harry’s an angel. No, he doesn’t shout _Styles Styles Styles_ in his mind and no he doesn’t stare at Louis Tomlinson thinking _my name is Harry Styles, not Twist, just Harry Styles_ , no he certainly does not say every curse word he knows in English, and Spanish (thanks Niall Horan), _because he’s_ _not his son_. He does everything in his power to keep his lips pressed together; he doesn’t want to correct Robin, afraid of the nagging he’ll get tomorrow morning at breakfast by Anne.

He does laugh, however, and Robin sends him a panicked look, when he thinks of Anne’s nagging and her empty threats. A slap in the face or a string of words that could leave him paralyzed? There’s nothing that she could do that could hurt him anymore, nothing at all.

“Harry, do you remember Mr. Tomlinson? I worked on his case, I mentioned it before. Surely you remember.” Robin smiles politely at Louis, who just stares back at the younger, curly haired boy.

No, he doesn’t remember. No one actually pays attention to Robin’s rambling and grunting about his boring lawyer cases at the dinner table, except maybe Anne, who has to act in interest—Robin is the one who pays for _everything_ and Anne has gotten quite accustomed spending thousands at Burberry and Dior every weekend. Besides, Harry’s pretty damn positive he’s only been to dinner with his mum and Robin like, twice the whole year. “Oh, yeah, Mr. Tomlinson, right! How could one forget?” 

Louis Tomlinson presses his lips together in amusement, his arched brows raise to reveal a small, forehead dimple, and Jesus fuck, he’s perfect.

Robin is speaking again, Harry knows this, but by now, after so many years of the boring, drowning voice, he tunes it out, completely focused on Louis Tomlinson. It’s most likely creepy, the way he’s staring at the man with hunger, but he can’t really help it, no. It’s not everyday you get someone like that, someone with a bum and lips and tiny waist like _that_ in your garden, watching you like you’re very much the prey.

It’s thrilling.

He can’t look away from his skin—his skin so tan, contrasting beautifully against the black of his blazer. It’s a big difference from the suits and gowns that adorn the garden; instead of oxfords and ties, he opted for dark jeans and a black graphic tee underneath a blazer, and it’s perfect. He wants to drop to his knees then and there.

And Harry knows Louis Tomlinson isn’t straight and that you shouldn’t believe everything you read in those glossy magazines, but the man has been caught in several compromising positions, latched on to the necks of a younger males in clubs, or making out with male models on the beaches of Mexico. No one can Photoshop that good, come on now.

He wants to run his hands through his slicked back hair, or grab the neckline of the denim jacket, or press the pads of his fingers to his rose pink lips, or just fuck him mercilessly in the same room he’s had since he moved in at ten.

Whichever, really, Harry’s not picky.

“Well, I’ll leave you be, I need to talk to Mr. Lane—business calls!” Robin gives Mr. Tomlinson a nod before turning to Harry. “Why don’t you tell Mr. Tomlinson about your friends and that little band you guys have? What do you call yourself?” He doesn’t stick around more than a second to hear Harry’s annoyed answer: he doesn’t even have a fucking band anymore, he was _fourteen_.

Louis reaches to the inside pocket of his suit, taking out a black iPhone. “Where can I get a drink?”

Harry looks around in a small panic, where the fuck are the waiters with the trays of cava? He’s obviously not oozing _cool_ and _calm_ or _collected_ , not with the way his palms are sweating or his racing thoughts. “I’m not sure, actually. There’s a table in one of the tents with champagne.”

Louis laughs, something twinkly and bright and unexpected, like waiting for the fireworks at New Years Eve and still being so surprised when the brilliant colours finally appear across the dark sky, promising and intense and the noise is loud, popping surely in your ears, even though its the same each year. “Don’t you have anything less shit? I’ve had a long week.” His eyes aren’t subtle as they make their way up and down Harry’s lanky body, toned and muscular in all the right places, lean and long in the others. They take every inch of his suit clad torso, his long miles of leg.

Harry can’t help but quirk an eyebrow at that— _is Louis Tomlinson checking him out?_ He knows that Mr. Tomlinson is no saint; he’s seen him in tabloids, granny pictures of the early mornings, stumbling out of clubs clutching on to some random blokes’ hand, or hiding his face in the crooks of their necks. He’s heard the boring talk about how the man likes them bit young, uses them as boy toys. He’s honestly quiet surprised at the fact that an out, _homosexual_ man is standing as part of the party that make up his sister’s engagement, considering his mum won’t even have _tea_ with people like Louis Tomlinson.

“I’m sure you have some good, Mexican tequila hidden in that big ol’ house of yours,” Mr. Tomlinson adds expectantly.

Harry nods and licks his lips, looking around the span of his grounds. Zayn is still with Perrie, next to a tent, laughing as she snaps her bubblegum and bits stick to the outside of her mouth. Niall is sitting down further away on the grounds, by a fountain covered with white roses, two thin birds under each arm, a bottle of champagne clutched in his hand. His step-dad is laughing like a jolly old man, content with his riches and his power and all the people who truly came out for him. His mum—his mum is standing to the side, a flute attached to her lips, watching people crowd around Gemma and her new fiancé with wistful eyes.

He looks back at Louis Tomlinson and smiles, sweetly, pure like the white that invades the garden, making sure his dimples are out, and reaches for his arm. “Right this way, Mr. Tomlinson.”

+

Not everyone is good at the same things, Harry knows this. For example, Zayn is marvellous at art; he can do amazing jobs with pastels and watercolours and oils, or just simple pen and paper. Niall is great at singing and playing guitar and memorizing the numbers of over a dozen take-away places. His mum, in particular, is good a belittling people and hosting soirées. Robin is great at fighting for the rights of people who did wrong, discussing plea agreements, and investing in all the right areas—there’s a reason why they live like they do.

 In truth, Harry, himself, is good at sucking cock.

Even as his head feels its floating high with clouds, his knees are planted firmly on the ground. With every low, husky groan that slips out of thin lips, or every uncontrollable thrust into Harry’s mouth, the boy feels on top of the world, his ego inflates, and he knows no one can take _this_ away from him.

They’re in the cellar, surrounded by rows and rows of rich wines and expensive rums, and his hands are gripping Louis’ thighs tightly, solidly, digging his blunt nails into the smooth, tan surface. There are tears rolling down his cheeks slowly, almost poetically, with every frank thrust to the back of his throat as the older man fucks his mouth hard, raw. Louis’ close.

The hand on top of Harry’s head clenches and unclenches rhythmically with every thrust, gripping tightly and yanking his hair back, pulling at the scalp, and Harry can only look up at the face of pleasure through watery eyes and moan around the thick prick in his mouth. It’s only a few seconds later when Louis lets go without warning, coming white hot down Harry’s aching throat, a strangled groan leaving his lips, the sliver of toned stomach showing quickly relaxes. Harry might’ve misheard, but he swears he heard his name in the aftermath.

He doesn’t even have to time think or lick at the come that splattered on the corner of his lips as Louis was pulling out, when the older man yanks him off his begging, red knees and presses their lips together gently. It takes Harry by complete surprise. He never—rarely—gets kissed on the mouth after being on his knees for someone, much less so softly and sweet.

Louis reaches down and palms at Harry’s dick, causing the younger boy to blush furiously.

“I—I already—while you were—I’m okay,” he finds himself tongue-tied and anxious.

“You’re okay?” Louis repeats with a smile.

“Yeah, ‘m good, thank you,” he croaks.

Louis shakes his head slowly, reaching out and pressing a thumb against Harry’s red, bottom lip. He sweeps his finger back and forth along the swollen flesh with glazed-over eyes. “I should be thanking you,” he mutters. “That mouth...”

And just like that, the moment is over. Louis straightens up and moves his hand away, going down to pick up his pants and trousers pooling at his feet. He buckles himself and manoeuvres around Harry, standing in front of the rows of liquor. “Don’t reckon anyone would mind if I take one of these out there, do you, Harry Twist?”

 _Styles_.

“No, don’t think so,” he replies softly, leaning back against a cooler. His fingers are twitching at his side, but what he finds most startling is that they’re not begging for the cool white of a fag or the metal of a razor against glass—they want, his whole body wants, to reach out and pull Louis Tomlinson back into his embrace. He’d happily get on his aching knees just to feel the warm surface of skin underneath his burning fingertips. He’d most definitely welcome the burn of his throat just to feel his length again.

It’s quiet for the few minuets the music mogul spends looking at labels and fiddling with the glass bottles, before choosing a particular, pure, white tequila from the shelves. “Think this is it,” he nods to Harry before heading out the door.

Harry just purses his lips and shuts the door behind him, following Louis’ spectacular bum up the stairs. At the end of the hallway, he excuses himself to his bedroom, something about a headache, and finds it delightful to see Louis’ smile falter.

“I was hoping to join you out in the party. Dance, maybe. ‘S still early, innit?”

Harry just shrugs indifferently, a big difference to the jumping jacks in his stomach. He definitely needs a couple shots with his friends and maybe a line or two. “Maybe next time, Mr. Tomlinson—my sister’s wedding isn’t too far away. I’ll save you a dance then.” He turns on his heel then, shutting his eyes tightly and breathing out, climbing the spiral staircase up to his room, refusing to sneak a peek back at Louis Tomlinson. His hands twitch and his heart hasn’t settled down since he first got on his knees in the cellar.

He’s stupid, definitely a big, dumb idiot. Perhaps it’s true what they used to say during health class in college, perhaps the weed _has_ gobbled up his brain cells; a fit, rich, famous, _older man_ just practically asked him for a dance and he declined him. He just got on his knees for him, let the man fuck his throat so raw that he knows come tomorrow morning his voice will be completely gone, and he can’t even give him the simple pleasure of a dance?

Harry doesn’t understand himself, that’s true, but there are happy, white little pills waiting in his bathroom that _do_ understand. He doesn’t understand why he does the things he does or why he craves the things he craves, or how he got so muddled up in the reality he lives in. He can’t remember his first high, but there have been many lows before that—lows that are carved on his skin, breathing like mould in between his deepest layers, tattooed on his bones.

 So what if he ran away again? So what if he goes and hides again? So what if most days he meanders around numb and thoughtless? There are highs and lows and flashes of light that always seem to find him no matter how far away he goes, and that’s all that matters. He’s found by _something_ at the end of the day, even when he creeps into his darkest hiding place. That’s okay, it’s all right—his heart is still beating; he’s okay.

+

It’s two twenty-three when he finally falls asleep. He hears himself this time, he hears his raspy, mellowed voice call out into the dark of the room, and somehow he’s surprised when no one is there to answer. He rolls over and through blurry eyes sees two twenty-three a.m. flash red on his alarm. He closes his eyes then, with a hand pressed over his chest, and falls asleep with a smile on his face and a beat underneath his burning fingers, blood boiling underneath the silk sheets.

 

 

 


	2. Misguided Ghosts - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please understand that this is just fiction. I love Anne, and this is not the way I see her or the way she really is. She just kinda sucks in this story. Also, there is a lot of heavy drug use.

 

* * *

 

 

Misguided Ghosts - Part One

 

 “I never knew it was possible to miss someone this much. I-I never felt like this, not with anyone.” Zayn stops and plays with the spark wheel of his lighter, flicking and flicking, watching with in a daze at the blue and red flames. “You know?” he adds in moments later, snapping out of his haze and looking over at Harry.

No, no, Harry doesn’t know. He’s never missed anyone like that, has never yearned for anyone like Zayn claims he does. He’s never had anyone like Zayn has. So he shakes his head _no_ and blows out smoke from his nostrils and goes back to stroking the water with his free hand, pushing himself around the pool.

They’ve been in the indoor pool for more hours now, due to unavoidable bad weather and rich kid boredom. Zayn waddled in and out, but always stayed near the steps, and now has gone back to the lounging chairs, mumbling and grumbling about the love of his life, the one that got away at the X Factor. Harry listens, of course he does—people can call him a bad person, a reckless kid with no responsibilities, a brat, or a list of many other things, but a bad friend is not one—but the pruney state of his fingers and the way the gray smoke filters around the hot room is just more interesting.

“It was love,” Zayn swears, eyes glued to the flames.

Harry nods from his place in the pool, gliding effortlessly on water on top of the hot pink float. “Maybe,” he drawls, “maybe it was just a romantic love. It wasn’t love, just romantic love.”

“What? Of course it was romantic—there was romance, we had fucking secret dates and shit, it _was_ romantic. And love.” Zayn stands and moves over to the edge of the pool plopping down and dropping his feet in. He’s been swearing that he’ll learn how to swim for _next summer_ since they were thirteen. “I don’t understand,” he confesses and takes the blunt from Harry’s hand once the raft is close enough.

 “You see,” Harry sits up carefully and holds himself in one place by wrapping his ankles around the metal rail of the pool steps. “There are many different types of love, alright? What you and Mr. Producer Man—whose name you _still_ haven’t told me—had was a _romantic_ love. Are you following?” He asks his mate for the notebook and pencil on the tables.

Zayn nods glumly and retrieves it, sinking back onto the heated marble floor and swallows more smoke. 

Harry continues. “There is _non-love_ ,” he draws a neat triangle on the blank paper. “ _Non-love_ is exactly what it sounds like: no love. There is _friendship love_ , and like in most friendships, like ours, there is familiarity.” He writes out ‘intimacy’ on one side of a new triangle. “There is _fatuous love_ , which includes only _passion_ and _commitment_.” He draws a new triangle and places the words on each side.

“Alright, but which one was mine?”

Harry just shakes his head and holds up a finger. “Then there is the plain and simple _infatuation_. We’ve all been there,” he writes out _passion_ at the bottom of another triangle. “ _Companionate love_ , which is _commitment_ and _passion_. And then there’s _empty love_ , one we’re all familiar with.”

Zayn nods and blows out smoke slowly. “Would that just be commitment, then?” he asks around a cloud of gray.

“Ding, ding, ding,” Harry grins large. He writes out _commitment_ on the side. “Our parents, Gemma’s relationship—all _empty love,_ sad but true. This can also be taken example when asked about the most popular of all loves.” He draws a new triangle on the back and writes _Consummate love_ in sloppy handwriting. “The rarest of all loves— _commitment, passion_ , and _intimacy_. Don’t see much of it these days.”

“So what about _romantic love_?”

Harry slides the black and white speckled journal over to Zayn, wetting the front. “Why don’t you try it? You’ve got three options.”

Zayn bites his lip and hands back the quickly-shrinking blunt. He takes the wet fountain-point pen from Harry’s grip and draws a small triangle next to the _consummate love_ one. He writes _passion_ and _intimacy_ on their respective sides and frowns. “What does that mean, then, H? It was love, wasn’t it? Even if there wasn’t any commitment?”

Harry shrugs and pushes his feet away from the wall, floating backwards. “Dunno mate, you’re the one who believes in love, so why don’t you tell me?” Zayn is silent when Harry speaks up again. “He was already in a relationship when you met—to a dancer on the same show as you, of course, so the girl was around when you two sneaked off and fooled around. He must’ve had some kind of love towards her, don’t you think? Could he have fallen in some kinda love with you, too?”

Zayn narrows his golden-tinted eyes at him from across the pool. “It’s not like you were never like, the other woman, Haz. You’ve fucked around with _married_ men, fuck.”

“But I never fell in love with them, and they surely never fell in love with _me_ ,” he sing-songs back, smiling wide at his best mate’s annoyance. “Do you think it’s possible to, for example, have a companionate love for someone whilst having a romantic love with someone else? Can you love two people at the same time, do you think?”

Zayn shrugs and flicks the spark wheel. “Don’t see why not,” he replies dully.

“Don’t think you can,” Harry thinks. “Don’t think so—if you loved someone, then you wouldn’t have fallen for anyone else—not if you truly, disgustingly, awfully loved that person. Don’t believe that’s possible.” But what does Harry know, really? He’s never felt love before, has never had it thrown at his face, has never ached for the warmth of someone else like his best mate. He knows shit-all about love, goes by what he’s seen in rom-coms and heard in love songs.

“So you don’t think he loved me?” Zayn breathes out into the warm, suffocating room.

“I think you’re lucky, Zayn,” Harry admits. “You’re in love with a man you haven’t seen in over a year, and you’re not slightly bitter, not at all. Maybe he didn’t love her.”

“I don’t thi—“

“I come bearing the purest gifts!” The door is thrown open before Zayn can finish his sentence, and Niall comes skipping in with a toothy, white grin. He catches himself before almost slipping on the wet tile, laughing at his own foolishness. “Mates,” he greets with a nod, holding up a small pink transparent baggy with pink hearts. “Gifts?”

“We’ve been waiting for you for hours, you twat,” Zayn rolls his eyes and lifts himself off the floor, following Niall back to the tables. “Harry’s getting restless, talking barmy about love.”

“Aw,” Niall coos, smiling fondly at Harry who’s easing himself up the pool steps. “Were you waiting for me?”

Harry sends him a V and bends over to pick up the wet notebook and pen, noticing how some of the words on the front page are smeared black and unreadable. At the table, he tears out the page and folds it small, hiding it underneath his mobile. “You were supposed to be here hours ago. Zayn’s almost drowned like a dozen times already.”

“I didn’t want to wear the floaters, they’ve got princesses on them,” Zayn admits quietly, cutting up the coke with a black credit card on top of a mirror.

“Princess Zaynie,” Niall teases, ruffling the tan boy’s fluffy, wet hair, before pulling out more baggies from his backpack, “’Sides, I got distracted.” He wiggles his dark blond eyebrows at Harry obnoxiously, handing over a bigger, opaque baggy to the curly-haired lad.

“Fucking your dealer’s girl is going to come and bite you in the arse one day, Ni,” Harry laughs, playfully yanking the bag out of his grip. He nods in contentment at the angular, white crystal rocks inside the plastic.

“She’s into that, you know, biting,” Niall declares with wide eyes. “She’s like, kinky as hell, that girl. I get a bit scared sometimes, to tell ya the truth—if anyone’s going to end up killing me, it’s Barbara and her goddamned floggers.”

+

“What the fuck?”

They’re in his bedroom, with piles of notes littered all over the bedspread, a beautiful hurricane bong being passed around, when the doorbell rings. The loud chiming rings throughout his room and it confuses him for a couple seconds, can’t recall where the particular noise is coming from. He’s never actually been home when guests come over, and even if that were the case, Claudia or another one of the help are usually standing by the opened door the moment someone pulls up to the driveway.

The ding-donging starts again moments later and Harry shrugs, flicking the lighter on and inhaling a big cloud of gray, sweet smoke. He goes for another hit when the chiming starts up again and he groans, rolling off the bed, money sticking to his bare back, heading towards the video intercom by his door.

“Think the doorbell is ringing, H,” Niall speaks up helpfully.

“No shit,” Harry rolls his eyes and presses a button to call the kitchen. “Claudia? Hello?” From the small screen, the kitchen looks empty, so he tries to second floor hallway. “Julie—anyone? The fucking doorbell is going off!” Nothing.  He sighs in frustration, yanking the door open. “It’s like no one fucking works here!” he shouts as he climbs down the stairs.

“Why is fucking Louis Tomlinson standing impatiently at your front door?” Zayn’s voice follows him through the built-in house speakers as he reaches the bottom of the second story staircase.  

“What?” Harry stops and turns back around, going to the video intercom besides the stairs. He presses a few buttons and _yep¸_ there he is. The little screen shows Louis Tomlinson himself rocking back and forth on his feet on his front steps, looking impatient and glaring at his mobile. “ _Fuck_ ,” Harry breathes, tearing his eyes from the screen and hurrying down the stairs, across the foyer, slipping on the exotic marble floors.

He breathes in once, twice, and tugs the heavy wooden door open to reveal a bristly Louis Tomlinson with one fine finger raised towards the doorbell. “Hi,” Harry pants. “Hi?”

“Harry Twist!” Louis exclaims, looking pleased to see the young, half-naked boy. “How are you?”

“’M fine, thanks. You—what about you? What are you doing here? Like, what can I help you with?” Harry stutters and stumbles over his words, face heating up at his childish mistakes, but fuck it—it’s not everyday the fit, older male you’ve blown and then blown off stands at your doorstep with a growing beard and tight skinny jeans. Tight skinny jeans, that mind you, hide thick, delicious thighs—ones that Harry has pressed his fingers into and had so badly wanted to seek his teeth into.

“I came to drop this off to Robin.” Louis holds up the large manila folder with both dainty hands. “Is he not home? Been ringing this thing for a few hours now,” he jokes lamely.

And _God_ , do the crinkles by his eyes and the slight dimple in his cheek make Harry want to die. But instead he clears his throat and self-consciously scratches at his bare hip when Louis’ eyes don’t seem to want to move away from that area. “I don’t think he is—in fact,” he looks over his shoulder at the large, empty space, “don’t think anyone’s home. I could hand that to him, if you’d like?”

Louis’ eyes snap up and he nods quickly. “That’d be just excellent, really, Harry.”

He hands over the heavy folder and Harry feels his back burn from all the attention it’s suddenly receiving as he goes over and drops it onto the side table in the foyer. He walks back to the door and nearly curses himself. “I’m sorry, would you like to come in? Have a drink or something? I’ve been so rude, letting you stand out there in the dreadful weather, haven’t I?”

Louis smiles and opens his mouth to start, but quickly snaps it shut as the sound of giggles and heavy, purposeful feet come downstairs.

Harry knows it must look bad, especially after he said something or another about being alone in the house. Yet, somehow Zayn appearing next to him with curious, red-rimmed eyes and a small smirk on his beautifully sculpted face, wearing only Harry’s silk  pants, tangled, sexed-up hair, and a one-hundred pound note stuck to his flat stomach only seems to make it worse. From an outsiders view—from Louis Fucking Tomlinson’s view, it has to look like they just fucked, it _has_ to, there are no other reasonable explanations for why they’re only in pants with happy, glowing faces.

Would Louis buy that they just went swimming and gotten high? And does it even _matter_ what Louis Tomlinson thinks? After all, he just showed up out of the blue, ringing the doorbell like a maniac—he doesn’t deserve to know what they’ve been up to, he doesn’t _need_ to know. He’s no one to Harry, honestly, just a fit, famous bloke he blew at his sister’s engagement party. Not a big deal.

“Who’s this?” Zayn asks warily, curling himself into Harry's body like a clingy boyfriend. Like a clingy boyfriend that he’s _not_.

Harry hates the way he wants to push his mate off and turn to Louis to explain, he hates it; it’s completely ridiculous and unreasonable and... Preposterous. He doesn’t know if he hates the fact that he’s praying Niall won’t come downstairs half naked more or less than the bizarre way his mate-turned-koala is acting.

Speaking of the Irish devil: “He’s from X Factor, you idiot,” Niall’s voice calls out from the intercom besides the door. “Hi, Louis Tomlinson! M’Niall, biggest fan, man!”

There’s that, then, Harry thinks, suppressing a load, annoyed groan. It’s embarrassment that’s flowing through his body and he almost can’t believe it—his best mates are embarrassing him. That’s never happened before; they’re supposed to be _cool_ and shit. “That’s Niall,” Harry nods towards the device that Louis can’t see from his spot on the steps, stating the obvious. “And this is Zayn.” Zayn only waves half-heartedly. eHe;sH

“Lads,” Louis acknowledges, nodding his head and pressing his lips together. “Harry, please, if you could just make sure those documents get to your father tonight, I’d—“

“His _father_ ,” Zayn blurts out from the crook of Harry’s neck. “Mate, who do you think his father is?”

“I’m sorry, is Robin not—?” Louis looks back and forth between Zayn and Harry with raised eyebrows, confused.

“You honestly think Robin Twist, that ugly, fat, boring man is Harry’s _dad_? This right here, sir,” Zayn slings his arm around Harry’s broad shoulders, “Is _Harry Styles_. You can’t forget a name like that, can ya? It’s the name of a rock star—he sounds like one, too,” he states, cupping Harry’s jaw and squishing his lips together.  “Sing for him, Haz, he’ll give you a record deal right here and now.”

“Robin is Harry’s step-dad,” Niall’s voice informs them.

Harry grumbles and rubs a hand over his flushing face. “Thanks, Ni.”

Zayn knows, that’s the thing—he’s the only person who knows outside his family, the only person he’s ever confided in.  Zayn knows when Harry lost his innocence. He knows where his dad went; he knows when Gemma started collapsing into herself. He knows why Anne is hard and cold like English winters—he knows who made her that way, too. Zayn knows how much Harry hates the last name Twist, hates how people force it upon him.

“Harry,” Louis sighs, rocking back and forth on his dark blue and red Vans-clad feet, looking extremely uncomfortable. “If you can just please get that folder to, uh, Robin, please. Unless, I mean, I see that I have caused some trouble and have interrupted your, uh—whatever you were doing,” he waves a hand towards the two boys. “I can easily just drop it off at his office in the city; really, I think I should do that. I was just in the neighbourhood, don’t live far, in fact, so,” he rambles, eyes skittering from the top of the doorway, to the driveway behind him, to Harry’s eyes, and Zayn’s grip on his waist. “I’ll just drop them off at his office, more professional, I think.”

“Oh, come off it,” Zayn laughs. “You’re already here, aren’t you?”

Harry throws a glare towards his friend and turns back to Louis with soft, insistent eyes. “Louis, really, don’t worry about it, honest, mate. The papers will sit there and wait until Robin gets back from wherever he’s at, no worries.”

Louis seems unconvinced, but nods anyhow. “Thanks, Harry.” He turns around and walks towards a black Aston Martin before waving. “Zayn, nice seeing you again—of course, I always had the honour to see you with all your clothes on while you were on stage.”

Zayn mutters under his breath and extracts himself from Harry, stumbling behind the door to hide. “I didn’t think he’d remember me!” he whispers harshly with wide, dilated eyes when Harry sends him a questioning look.

When Harry turns back to the door, Louis is opening his and climbing in. He can’t stop himself when he bellows out the man’s name. “Wait!” Louis looks up at him, hand stretched out, holding the door open.

And then he can’t think of anything to say. He wants to ask when they’ll see each other again. He wants to make Louis come down his throat again, he wants to see that sculpted face masked by the pleasure that _he_ caused. He wants to know if he can be one of those fit model boys Louis’ seen parading around with. He wants to run out the door in his pants, even as it starts pouring again, and throw himself at the man, pressing their lips together properly. He doesn’t know why he wants any of those things as much as he wants a fix, a hit, a rush, a high.

It’s like he’s back at that party a few weeks ago, high off of nasty cough syrup and coke, drunk from lowliness and flashes. He can’t get his mouth to say the correct things, and when his mouth does open, it says things Harry never wanted to know in the first place. He kinda wants Louis’ face to flash, just so he can know his true colours, just so maybe he can buy sometime.

But there’s no time, and Louis looks exasperated and confused as he starts getting wet and the only thing that comes out of Harry’s mouth is: “How, did—who let you in? In the gates, I mean, who let you through the gates?”

Louis looks crestfallen, but composes himself quickly. “Your sister, I believe. Blue hair, right? She was on her way out.” He nods once more at Harry and shuts the door to his car.

Harry stands there and stares. He stares as Louis’ car roars to life, pulls out in reverse and waits as the gates automatically open. He stares as Louis turns his blinker on and waits for a car to pass on the road outside. He waits there, underneath the doorway in his pink, cotton pants, and stares until Louis and his car are no longer visible, long gone and heading God knows where.

He doesn’t believe there’s a triangle on the wadded up, damp piece of paper in his bedroom drawer that can explain all the weird feelings in his body. He craves something unknown.

+

It’s much later that night, when he’s curved around Zayn’s lithe body, when the urge to say something, anything, comes to him. He’s drowsy, almost ready to knock out, and he knows Zayn is almost there, too. They’re still sweaty and sticky, and come next morning, he knows Zayn will be disgusted and bitchy about how flaky and dry his stomach is, how itchy come can get. But laziness overrules everything when it comes to his best mate, so none of them make a move in search for a wet towel.  

“Z?”

Zayn mumbles, and presses his nose further into the nook of Harry’s neck and sighs happily. “Hmm?”

“My dad was fat, too. I mean, not fat, per say, but he always had a sort of a beer belly,” he whispers into the dark, into the soft fluff of dark hair.

“What are you talking about, H?” Zayn looks up, removing himself from Harry’s hold to see into his eyes. “Des—?”

“It’s just, earlier, you know? When Louis was over and you started acting all high and went on about Robin—how he was ugly and fat and boring? My dad, he was fat, too,” he breathes out slowly.

Zayn knows. It’s okay with Zayn, it really is. He’s the only one who can lay Harry down, peel away his layers, hold the boy underneath, and put him back together in the mornings. Zayn always knows what he needs, when he’s not okay, especially when he says he is.

“Oh, Harry,” the boy whispers, voice muffled by skin and collarbones and warmth. “That’s beside the point, Harry Styles. Beside the point.”

It’s quiet again, and Harry would believe his mate was asleep had the lad not shrugged underneath him and blew out a frustrated sigh. “Can’t sleep?”

“He thinks your fit, Louis does. Niall did something or another to the little video-voice thing and we saw you guys, and when you went to put down the folder, he totally checked you out. Bit his lip and everything.” Zayn laughs lightly into the dark, wiggling closer to Harry’s neck.

“What,” Harry shrieks quietly.  “You were spy— _wait_ , he was checking me out? You think he thinks I’m fit?”

“Priorities,” Zayn grumbles.

“ _Zayn!_ ” Harry yanks out of their cuddle and scoots backwards, sitting on his haunches. “Right now, you’re telling me fucking Louis Tomlinson checked me out. Am I correct?”

“ _Yes_ , that’s what I’m saying, damn,” Zayn scoots deeper into the sheets. “You should call Niall and ask him about it, though, he has a much better monologue about the whole thing.”

_Niall_? Harry’s stupid, of course Niall would tell it like it is, he would definitely tell him if Louis Tomlinson checked out his pert little bum in his pants or not. “You’re right, you’re right,” he agrees, sitting up on his knees and reaching out for his mobile, where it’s charging on his nightstand. “Niall is a much better friend than you; he would definitely tell me everything.”

“No,” Zayn groans, sitting up. “Harry, it’s three in the morning, and if Niall’s not being whipped like a little bitch by Barbara right now, then he’s sleeping. He’ll kill you if he’s sleeping and you wake him up. He won’t share his chicken with us anymore.”

“You’re right again,” Harry frowns. “This is like a record or something—you’re right, _again_. I can wait until the morning, I can.” He climbs back into bed with wobbly legs and settles against Zayn’ chest, “I can wait.”

“Jesus fuck,” Zayn mutters. “You’re heart is going so fast, I swear sometimes I’m scared it’s going to jump out. You’re too anxious. Have you taken anything?”

“No,” Harry lies. “No, I haven’t, not really. Could use a Xany or two.” He doesn’t make it a habit to lie to his best friend, but he needs to stop his brain, needs to stop the racing thoughts. He doesn’t want to stop his heart, though, no, never, and a Xanax or four usually helps ease everything but his beatings. He needs his beatings.

Zayn climbs out of bed stark naked and walks into the en-suite bathroom, coming back with a glass of water and two tablets. Harry takes them wordlessly and settles back into Zayn’s chest, allowing the boy to hide his face in his neck like he loves to do. It gets quiet again and Harry can’t stop.

“I blew him. Louis, I mean, I let him fuck my mouth.”

“ _What_ ,” Zayn sits up abruptly, knocking his forehead into Harry’s chin. “Ow, shit, _fuck_ , you did what?”

Harry nods shyly and throws his arms over his eyes. “At Gem’s engagement party, yeah? Robin introduced us, for some reason, and then he left, and then Louis wanted some tequila, so I took him to the cellar, and he was all flirty and he kissed me, so I got on my knees and blew him. By the way, the cellar has really hard granite floors—don’t blow anyone there, your knees will thank you.”

Zayn looks at him with narrowed eyes. The full moon shining from the opened balcony French doors cast shadows on his long, thick lashes and his angular cheekbones, and Harry wishes he could love him. Harry wishes they could have a consummate love, filled with fervour, buoyancy, and promise.

They know everything about one another, and everything between them is so simple and clean, and fuck, the sex is great, _but_ —but? It should be so easy, shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t it be so simple to fall in love with your best friend, the one person who knows everything about you—the ugly, the filthy, the absurd—and still welcomes you with open arms? His life would be so much justified if he knew love, if he could reciprocate it, demonstrate it, _feel_ it.

But they don’t love each other, that’s the point—not like that anyway, just a friendship love filled with intimacy, and Zayn loves someone who fucked him over badly on the X-Factor, and Harry doesn’t even know how to love in the first place. God, how Harry wishes they were it for the other, but they’re just simply not, and he’s (kinda) come to peace with the fact that he’ll be alone forever, lusting after older men like Louis Tomlinson, for the rest of his— most likely—short life.

That’s okay, he’s okay.

“I’m going to sleep. You’re driving me mad.” Zayn shuffles back into his arms and sighs. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Harry Styles, we will.”

He suppresses a laugh and nods silently, closing his eyes, feeling the drugs work their way into his system.  When he’s sure his friend is sleeping, he drags his arm away from Zayn’s back and shuffles it in between his chest and Zayn’s resting body, laying his hands on his heart. He can’t fall asleep without a reminder, without the irregular beating underneath his fingertips anymore. He needs the reassurance that he’s truly okay, that his heart will still be going throughout the night.

It’s three fourteen am.

+

Anne, Robin, and Connor come back a whole week later, looking rested and tan, and as Harry sits up straight at the long, dark dining table, he’s still not sure where they fucked off to. He knows his sister didn’t go—he saw her looking pale and glum as usual as he passed by her in the hallway towards the kitchen in the morning, without a word said between the two of them, new blue hair all in array in a bun on top of her head—probably with some excuse about spending time with Richard, her new fiancé, or cake tastings. He doesn’t get invited to family vacations anymore; not since he turned thirteen and apparently an annoying little shit, and Anne deemed him ready to stay home by himself, and besides, if he needs someone to make him breakfast or do his laundry, the maids are there to tend to his needs.

Connor starts talking with his mouth full of spaghetti, going on and on about swimming with dolphins and surfing, and Anne only looks at him with pure fondness in her eyes, even as the little shit spits out meatball pieces onto Harry’s Roman  salad. He catches the word _Barbados_ in quick sentences and he has to stop himself from reaching other and snapping his little brother’s mouth shut. That’s the last time he ever mentions vacations plans while on the phone with Niall and with Connor in the room.

That’s the bad thing about Ritalin, uppers in general, is that even though they make him more alert, focused, they also make him angrier, agitated, and anxious. He catches things he normally doesn’t with downers like Xanax, things that would usually fly over his head and have him shrug his shoulders at, now make him want to flip the dining room table over or break every single piece of china in the house. He needs to go, he needs to leave, just _gogogo_.

But he needs to stay; he needs to learn about Louis Tomlinson through his step-father. Why did Louis need a lawyer, especially such an expensive, exclusive one like Robin Twist? He tried to read the documents Louis left last week, but his drug-riddled mind understood absolutely nothing. There were just a bunch of names, and Louis’ was spilled everywhere, along with an Ava and Charlotte Tomlinson, and it just didn’t make sense, it didn’t, none of it.

It makes him angry; it pisses him off and causes his hands to tremble. He hates not knowing things, he hates not being smart and praised like Gemma, not being sweet and charming like fucking Connor, not being beautiful and flawless like Zayn. He hates being stupid, uni-dropout Harry, with the drug addiction and daddy issues. He hates that the only time his mother will say his name, say _Harry_ , is when she’s mad and appalled by his behaviour. So that’s why he does it.

“Louis Tomlinson stopped by,” he says to the table, loudly, too loudly for the room, for the ambience, completely interrupting Connor’s story about the dolphin with the stupid fucking broken fin.

“Was it important or something, sweetheart?” Anne delivers a cold, irritated glare at him. She must be hopped on a cocktail of tea and caffeine pills; must be as angry and frustrated as him. She hasn’t touched her dinner, garlic bread now gone cold and stale. “So important that you couldn’t have told us yesterday, when we arrived, or after your brother was done speaking?”

“He’s never going to stop yapping if you don’t bloody shut him up, don’t you think, _Mum_?”

Anne gasps and throws her cloth napkin on top of her untouched plate. “Harry Twist, you will not—“

“Anne, stop,” Robin puts a heavy hand on her shoulder. “The boy obviously has a statement to make, being so rude to his little brother like that. Just let him say what he desperately needs to say, so he can be excused from the table.”

Anne opens her delicate mouth, but shuts it as an afterthought, and Harry wants to scream. He wants her to fight him, he wants her to yell at him, slap at him with her diamond rings, curse at him like she used to before she became a whole new person; an angry, prescription-pill addicted robot. He wants to know what it’ll take for her to break, for her to yell his name so much she won’t ever forget it again. What does it take? Does he have to slap his brother around, does he have to steal her pills, or does he have to bring shame to the infamous _Twist_ name?

There’s only white-hot anger cursing through his veins; the blood in his body has been replaced by electricity, a current so strong that it might just blow if someone pushes the wrong button. He wonders when his mum looks at him, what does she see? Does she see his father, the man that up and left them in poverty, in an apartment crawling with roaches, invested with rats, without a word?

Does she see the little boy, the _little_ _fucking slut_ that unknowingly beckoned grown men into his tiny, twin sized bed while she slept, drugged? Does she see that same little boy, that same _fucking slut_ , who cried throughout the pain, throughout the night, for his mummy? Does she see the ten year old who slashed her wedding dress with a kitchen knife and tore up the adoption papers? Does she see the eleven year old who borrowed spray paint cans from the older kids down the street and vandalized his unborn brother’s nursery? Does she see the thirteen year old who got expelled from a prestigious school for smoking dope in the bathroom during break or the fifteen year old who borrowed his new daddy’s classic Jaguar on a drunken joyride and crashed it into the neighbour’s garage?

What— _who_ does she see? Or does she not see him at all, another bore, another chore, in her life? That probability scares him the most.

“Well?” She raises a finely-plucked eyebrow. “What bloody was it that you needed to tell us about that damn faggot, Louis Tomlinson? What was so goddamned important, Harry?”

He leans over and snatches the manila folder from Gemma’s empty chair beside his. “He dropped of this, said it was important,” he hisses, making his way around the table and dropping it on top of Robin’s empty plate.

Gemma comes in then, face pale with violet shadows underneath her eyes. “Oh? Is dinner over?” He pushes his way past her and her ridiculous, large, baggy Nirvana shirt—when the fuck did she start listening to Kurt Cobain? 

“Oi, you didn’t look at these, did ya, boy? Confidential, this is, you snoop!” Robin yells over his shoulder.

Harry doesn’t bother answering, just stomps on the stairs up to his room, like a fifteen year old girl who didn’t get her way. He slams the door and locks himself in the bathroom, fingers twitching, hands scrambling through boxes and brown prescription bottles, until he reaches the bottom of the drawer. His body sighs in relieve at just the sight of the white little rectangular tablets. He feels too angry and it feels weird in his normally relaxed, chilled mind. He doesn’t like all this pent-up anger that he carries around, he doesn’t like acknowledging it.

He doesn’t even think twice about downing a handful. Perhaps that’s where he started to go wrong, when he stopped thinking.

+

Gemma finds him an hour later, sitting quietly on the balcony floor, peering through the cracks at the garden below. “You busy?”

“No,” he slurs back.

“Are you honestly drunk right now?” Her eyes shift towards an empty Grey Goose bottle near the small table behind him, and he just lets her assume the worse. In truth, that bottle has been empty since last week. Alcohol isn’t his poison anymore—that’s _so_ year seven.

“If this was three years ago, I would totally be telling on you right now, but I hate Mum right now, and you’re of age, so. Besides, I was your age; too, I’ve done worse things.”

He snorts, somehow he really doubts that.

It’s silent, just the sound of the gardeners chatting amicably and the birds. She shifts around until she finally drops besides him on the tile, still wearing that big, faded band tee. “How’ve you been, Haz?”

“Name one song by Nirvana,” he retaliates. Why does it matter how he’s been? He’s the same; the same as he was when they were living in Cheshire, the same as he was when they first moved to London, the same that he was when she last had a proper conversation with him months ago. He doesn’t believe she really cares.

She looks away from him, eyes going to the large, spewing fountain further back in the garden. Her hair looks like candy floss with the sun shining on it and she has never looked more like Anne. It scares him, the thought of his sister ending up anything like their mother—frigid and acidic. If she goes through with the ridiculous wedding, she’ll be a carbon copy.

“ _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ ,” she beams at him. “That’s by Nirvana, ‘m sure of it.”

He shakes his head, curls grazing his shoulder, “Doesn’t count: everyone and their granny can name that one. Name another one.”

She thinks for awhile, turning a strand of blue into a tiny braid. “I don’t know anymore,” she admits.

“You’re a poser.”

“I’m in _love_ , Harry.”

He was expecting that, he was—but how is it so effortless for some people to say? Is it that easy, that uncomplicated to just admit to others that you’re in fucking love? Is it easy to admit to _yourself_? He can’t ever see himself telling anyone, not even Zayn, that he’s in _love_. It’s easier to say that he likes to be spanked in bed, or that he likes to paint his nails deep reds and soft pinks, or that he loves the way lace feels on his burning fingers and that he wonders what it would feel like resting on his cold thighs. That’s much easier.

“Didn’t reckon Dick was into 90’s grunge bands—guess you shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover, ‘cause those suits and ties sure hide a lot.”

“Harry,” his sister speaks softly. “Dic— _Richard_ , he—I don’t love him, I don’t even like him. You know that, don’t you?” she asks flustered. “You know there’s someone else, someone— _he_ likes my hair and when I don’t wear make up, and this top, this is _his_..,” she drifts off and tugs at the bottom of the tee. “Mum would hate him, I know she would. But you, you Harry—you would love him, you would,” she rushes out, “He even likes that band that you like, The Arctic Monkeys?”

“Do you know any songs by them?”

She lights up instantly, with the same toothy smile as him, the same smile his mum had before. “I know a couple; I even got their new album. But _Harry_ , I’m trying to be serious here, I’m trying to—“

“It sounds like you’re trying to convince me of something. More like convince you of something, Gems.” He hasn’t spoken to her in ages, hasn’t sat down and looked at her in years, but she’s still the same.

“I don’t want this,” she confesses quietly, twirling the big rock on her ring finger. “I-I even, when we decided to go through with this—this stupid engagement—he _asked_ me what kind of ring I wanted. God, you don’t _ask_ your soon-to-be-fiancée what kinda of ring she wants, you know? If you’re going to get married, you should already know, but I fucking told him anyways, I told him I wanted a round-cut, something simple and—and he bloody got me this!” She throws her hand up in despair and tears start to well in her eyes.

He’s having a hard time understanding what she’s saying, his head cloudy and dark, but he nods empathically, glaring at the offensive ring. He knows she’s leaving; he just wants her to get it out before he’s completely gone.

“And Ashton—his name is Ashton, he’s in this band, right? Actually, they were found by Louis Tomlinson on Youtube—you met him at the engagement party, didn’t you? Well, anyway, Louis found them, and now they’re going to be doing this tour in America and I-I want to go with him, them.”

There it is.

“Then leave, Gemma, if that’s what you want,” Harry sighs tiredly, bones weighing him down. His eyes start to droop and he questions how hard he’s slurring, if she can even understand what he’s mumbling out. And maybe he should be nicer, considering that she’s leaving for who knows how long, and this is the first proper conversation they’ve had in months. But like phones, mouths work both ways. “Being a groupie—that’s something new for you.”

“I just don’t want to leave with a heavy mind,” she reveals sombrely. “I need to know you’re okay, Haz, I need to not worry about you while I’m away.”

That makes him blink, that makes him sit up straighter, and that clears the fog from his mind for a few minuets. “You need to _not worry_ about me? Fuck, Gemma, no one is making you worry shit about me.”

“Harry,” Gemma protests, “That’s not what I meant, not at all; I just need you to promise me that you’ll be okay.”

His fingers start to twitch, longing for something to hold onto, something toxic, and he stands up unexpectedly, white spots marring his vision so that he has to grab onto the stone wall to keep himself upright.  He refuses to glance back down at his sister, refuses to see her pity, and instead trudges inside his room for his Marlboros and a lighter. He goes back out to join her once he’s had three good pulls of nicotine in his system. When he sits down and faces her, she flashes violet and indigo, but it’s gone as quick as it came.

“I think,” he starts of slowly, taking quick pulls of his fag. “that you asking me to _promise_ you that—it’s selfish, Gem, it’s selfish as fuck. Why are you wasting your time, Gems? You’re going to run off with him whether or not I promise.”

“No,” she cries, “no, I won’t.” Tears are falling freely now as she clutches her brother’s cold hand. “Harry, I’ll stay—I’ll get married, I will.”

“I couldn’t do that to you, Gemma; I couldn’t sit there and watch you do something against your will. I couldn’t live with myself if that’d happen, seeing you hurt like that.” It’s low, a stab in the back, a twist of the dagger, but he can’t stop his slippery mouth—like after all this time, his mouth and brain finally meet and sync up, and the results are dangerous, an error with no filter.

She gasps and drops his hand, flinching away, like his fingertips burned holes in her skin, like he slapped her across the face. The gardeners below are looking up at the balcony in worry. “Harry, that isn’t fair, _Harry_ —“

“Is this what it’s about,” he asks, “making things _fair_? You want to even the score? Or are you revaluating your morals before calling off a million pound wedding and running away to America?”

” _No_ ,” she pleads, covering her blotchy face with long, blue claws. “ _No_ , please.”

He calmly exhales smoke, watching as it dissertates into the air. He wants to be like that—wants to be a part of something big, something meaningful, and then just slip away forever, leave behind everything he once knew and once was, without trace. He wants to be a bit like smoke.  No memories, no past, no future, not present, no feelings to run away from—bittersweet like the aftertaste on his tongue. 

It’s hard to put words together now, hard to form a sentence in his head and make it fall from his lips, but he does, somehow, he always does it. “You sat there and watched what they did to me,” he whispers, burdened like the ghosts from thirteen years ago are sitting on his rigid chest. “I _saw_ you, through the crack from Mum’s door, _I saw you_. You did nothing to help me, noth-nothing at _all_ ,” he croaks, voice cracking.

They’re sitting miles apart from each other now on the stone balcony; he moves away every time she reaches out—he can’t be touched right now, he shouldn’t be, for every touch, every palm reminds him of the dirty, callused hands that touched him first, rough and bruising, and their feel is burned onto his skin. It doesn’t matter how hot the water that pours over him while he’s in the shower is, it doesn’t matter that it’s singeing, or that he uses the toughest, most abrasive chemical products that cause his skin to break out and peel apart—they’re all over him, they’re touching his innocent body even though he begs, even when he sobs. Even when he’s clean, he’s filthy with memories that won’t erase themselves.

Although no one has touched him like _that_ in last thirteen years, he can’t stop.

They’re ghosts, and they crawl back into his bed every night, no matter how hard he presses his fingers onto his chest to feel his heart—he feels dead at the very memory of those hands, of those eyes, at that feeling of being ripped open. No one ever did anything to help him runway from those ghouls; he’s stuck running in circles by himself.

“I was ten, Harry, please,” Gemma begs, distraught on the tile floor, “I was a kid, I didn’t understand, I didn’t know _how_. Mu-Mum, she wouldn’t, I could—“

“I was _seven_ ,” Harry yells back, humiliated, betrayed. “I was in pain and you were my big sister! You said you would always help me, you said you would look after me, you promised me!” He holds his left palm towards her, where a white, rigid scar sits, reminding her of all the empty promises.

“I-I’m sorry, Harry, I’m so sorry,” she pleads quietly, reaching out for him, holding up her own right palm. “It’s been eating me—it’s been killing me inside, but I never, I don’t—“

He has never seen her so weak before, has never seen her in such physical and emotional pain, but why did it take her thirteen years to admit she never tried to help him? How could she sit across the table from him for a decade and not see what was in his sunken life? He needs to know, he needs to—he probably will never see her again, not if she goes to America and he...

“Why have you never stood up for me, Gems? Why have you let her walk over me and—and make a fool out of me, why have you never said anything?”

She has no words for him, no answers, and—fine. It’s fine. He shouldn’t have expected them anyway, he shouldn’t have expected her to stay forever, stay with him like she promised myriad years ago, but he did. Silly of him, slow of him—she let him down once before, what’s another one? What’s once more? “Get up, please,” he mentions for her to get off the floor. “Just leave, really, I’m tired, and I know you’ll have a grand time in America.”

“What?” Gemma’s face is written with shock and she refuses, frantic, standing on unsteady legs. “No, no, I can’t go, Harry, I can’t leave you here. I need to do something, I need to—“

“You need to go,” Harry says tiredly. “You should go and do something right for once. Bring me one of those vests with those crude sayings,” he attempts a weak smile, eyes drooping. His body has been going up and down like a lift for the last hour, talking with his sister is taking a toll on him—he needs to let the drugs do that they were meant to do an hour ago. He’s drained.

“I want to make this better.”

He wants to scream at her, want to yell in her face that she’s thirteen years too late, that the damage is done and irreversible, but he can’t, he can’t even see her clearly—violet and indigo. Instead he leaves her on the balcony and climbs into bed, snuggling deep underneath the covers that still linger of Versace: Zayn. He hears her shuffle into the room, sniffling, gently closing the French doors. He can feel her gaze and he stops the urge to roll his eyes, in its place just pats the space behind him and it’s not two seconds later that he feels the bed dip and a pair of thin, warm arms wrap around his waist.

“I’ll be okay,” he slurs into his pillow and hopes she hears him. “I’ll be fine—I promise, Gems. I’m always okay.”

“It’s nine twenty, Harry,” is the last thing he hears before he passes out into sweet, dark oblivion.

+

He wakes up with a start, gasping for air. It feels like there are elephants sitting on his chest, he can’t breathe; it seems no matter how hard he inhales, how hard he tries to gasp in air, there’s just nothing there. He tumbles out of bed, almost falling to his knees before catching himself, and runs to the bathroom, splashing him with cold water. Oxygen hits him like a slap to the face. He pops two downers and struggles back into the room—Gemma’s gone.

It’s been two days since his sister has left and the whole situation has made the house even more tense than usual. Someone tipped Anne off yesterday and the woman barged into Gem’s room breathing fire. She screamed, flipping through the little that was left in his sister’s closet, discovering the large white ball gown still hiding in its plastic cover. That was nothing to how her screams echoed throughout the estate as she was nearly blinded by the square cut engagement ring sitting peacefully on the nightstand.

It’s pathetic, and Harry feels a tiny bit jealous of Gemma. At least she got to get out of here, got the chance to breathe, to live. He’s trapped, falling deeper into the quicksand.

+

His body wants more and more each time, and it’s tiring. It wants fast and furious, and he’s trying not fall apart before each fix, before each rush, but it’s hard and reckless, and he knows he’s losing it. Two, three lines used to make him burn bright, made him the king of his palace, but now he’s dull at four, a peasant at three. It’s like his own body is stealing his star, preventing him from shining loud; it just wants _more_ and Harry doesn’t know where his limits stand anymore.

It’s summertime, so there’s a party basically every night and Harry lives for them. A night in just isn’t acceptable anymore, it’s a waste of time—he’s at his fucking prime, he’ll never be twenty again, never ever _ever_ , and he needs to live while he can. He can get a decent rush, but it only lasts a little bit, all cheap shit, and he needs the high quality stuff, the expensive cuts, he needs the pure.

Things at the house get so bad weeks after Gemma leaves without a single note, without a phone call to spare her mum, that he finds himself waking up in his bathroom more often than not, still high from hours earlier. He doesn’t spend much time there, either, opting for Niall’s flat in the city; it’s a lot better than being drunk and weeping all by himself in his restless room, whatever.

He doesn’t seen Zayn a lot either these days, since the bloke said he really wanted to focus on his new summer fling with now-blonde Perrie Edwards and her new lips, wanted to forget all about the man that broke his heart during his time on the X Factor. Go from _romantic love_ to pure _infatuation_. And no, it doesn’t make Harry bitter, not at all—so what he couldn’t help his best mate of almost a decade get over a man but a toffee-nosed bird can?

And _no_ , he’s not mad that Niall got caught fucking their dealer’s girlfriend, so now the man refuses to deal to Niall or his friends, so they’re—Harry’s—stuck without premium drugs for who knows how long until they find a new, decent dealer. It’s totally okay that he’s stuck with shitty quality coke and Xanax-knockoffs, yeah. Sure.

 

 

He sees Louis Tomlinson in the middle of July, in the VIP section of some snazzy club that he couldn’t give two shits about. He wants to cross the black velvet rope separating them and climb into his lap, shooing away all the boys and girls who sit with their mouths open at his feet, hanging on to his every word. But he doesn’t, of course not; he’s thought about Louis Tomlinson a lot since he showed up at his house in June, _especially a lot_ after Niall showed him the recorded clip of the man checking out his arse, but now?

Now, he sees him as a one hit wonder; Louis Tomlinson is the kind of man the Gods spent extra time and energy on, and it wouldn’t be fair to monopolise his beauty or his talent. That’s why Harry classifies him as a one hit wonder—the chances of being with a man like that again are slim to none, that’s probably why all his boy toys only seem to hang around for the maximum of a week or two.

 He needs to forget about him tonight, pretend he never saw him in the first place, and focus.

He needs _someone_ tonight; he needs someone to grab him so hard that their unrecognisable fingers leave mauve marks on his hips, give a flush to his colourless ferns. He needs someone to breathe in, someone to erase his past, to make him forget about the future, even if it’s just for one night only, just for this night. He feels like he wants to go crazy tonight, leave his mind behind—he needs someone to save him, someone to set his organs on fire and leave them to ashes.

He gulps back every drink shoved his way and swallows with glee every little piece of magic Niall hands him, and he can’t stop asking for more, can’t stop loving the way men gravitate towards his sweet face and toned body, and grab onto his burning skin with possession. His senses are out of whack; he’s lost his eyesight, prefers to keep them shut, for when he opens them all he can see are flashes of colours and he can’t control the way his eyes seem to roll over until they reach Louis Tomlinson’s table; he can smell sweet, musky cologne and dark sweat; can only feel searing bodies underneath his own hot fingertips, firm lengths pressing against his thigh, lips moving against his neck hungrily, biting and pulling at the skin with sharp teeth.

The beat changes, faster, dirtier, and he throws his head back in pleasure, eyes shut tight. When he presses back against the man, he’s surprised that the bulky, muscled body is now replaced by a thinner, lean frame. He smiles widely and presses himself closer, familiar, until he can feel the beat-beating of the drums against his back, a familiar heartbeat. “Missed you!” he yells, letting his words get swallowed up by the loud, thumping music, absorbed into the glistening skin of strangers. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” Zayn shouts into the pale spot below his ear and encircles his arms around Harry’s waist, slotting a leg in between his legs, but Harry turns around with bright, blank eyes and hides his face into the crook of his neck, stilling them, causing bodies to bump into them and sway them, but the two friends don’t move. “I’m sorry,” Zayn whispers, words only meant for Harry. “You needed me and I wasn’t there for you, especially with what happened with Gem—“

Harry pulls away rapidly and gives his best mate a smile so immense it could crack his face. He wonders how gone he looks, how flushed his red-hot skin is, how dilated his eyes are. He wonders if he can fool Zayn into thinking that it’s okay, that he’s okay, that he didn’t need him, didn’t need anyone. That Gemma leaving hadn’t affected him, or that it didn’t really matter because she was never quite there in the first place.

He feels eyes burning into his side and he knows they belong to Louis. The man has been following him with those crystal blues of his all night, even though there’s a particularly good group of men asking for attention, begging for a dance. Harry hasn’t seen him on the dance floor once since he saw him the first time, and he refuses to look that way, refuses to meet those hungry eyes.

Instead, he presses a chaste kiss on the corner of Zayn’s whiskey mouth and keeps smiling. He has got to look like a maniac, like a clown hopped up on acid, which can’t be further from the truth; he’s just a lonely fool on drugs with a liquor-painted mouth that can’t possibly stretch any further. His body starts moving on its own again, and despites his internal protests, he presses his sweaty body onto Zayn’s perspiring clothes.

“I’m so sor—“

“Where’s P-Perrie?”

 He’s tired of hearing how sorry people are, tired of hearing their protests and their heavy want on making it _all better_. He just thinks if you do something right from the beginning, if you try hard to make it okay from the very start, then there’s no need to apologize. He’s just tired of that word, of worn-out promises.

Zayn backs away from his face and squints his eyes at him.  “I don’t know, haven’t talked to her,” he replies a few beats later.

It’s hard to talk on the dance floor, having to yell over the loud music, so Harry just nods and smiles again, turning back around to grind against Zayn. That’s when he makes the mistake of snapping his eyes up straight ahead only to meet Louis Tomlinson’s. He starring at him, with clear determination and want, and it feels like bugs are crawling on Harry’s spine, sending his arms into a frantic goosepimply state.  He wants to detach himself from Zayn and just run, run, _run_ until he’s in Louis’ lap, until he has his liquor lips all over sinful, tan skin, and the man’s fingers are leaving bruises on his skin, living proof that this is all real, that he’s genuine and not just some sick fantasy of Harry’s.

People block his view, impede their intense eye starring contest, and he has to stop himself from moving around them, from craning his neck just to meet those eyes again. He doesn’t know what it is about Louis Tomlinson, the music producer; he doesn’t know why Harry feels so attracted to him, because yes, it’s obvious that he’s striking, but there’s something much more important, something like the way he carries himself, holds his head high and walks around with an air of superiority that somehow isn’t arrogant or narcissistic. It’s like he’s being pulled to the man by a string since the very first day they met, since the moment Harry fell onto his knees for him—there’s something there that he can’t decipher, but it’s so much more than just wanting a quick fuck, something longer-lasting, a craving that his body refuses to get rid of, a craving much different yet so similar than one like a fix.

Somehow, Harry doesn’t think he can just get one hit of Louis Tomlinson and be satiated, be at ease. He’s starting to believe that the man is like an addictive, and now that he’s had a taste, he can simply only demand more and more. It can’t be healthy, but then again he’s not known for his juice cleanses or vegan diets, but for his _go go go_ lifestyle and his promiscuous ways and his vacant, jaded eyes. (He’s heard people speak about his eyes, as odd as that sounds; at parties, people talk about how he just roams around with a bare stare and drinks and doesn’t talk a lot, and even Anne’s supercilious friends gossip about how sickly he looks all the time. He doesn’t care anymore about what people think, and once upon time he did, but now it’s just _fuck it_ , because people will talk no matter what he does.)

Bodies change out of the way and when Harry looks up again, he’s surprised that Louis still has his eyes settled on him. How long has he just been starring at him, was it the moment he walked in? Did Louis, like Harry, just automatically shift to him, seek him out unconsciously in the crowd? Louis’ table has cleared with the exception of a man with a leggy woman on his lap, and the desire to flit over there is filling him quickly, rushing through his veins like smooth alcohol.

This Louis, the one whose eyes are boring into his soul, seems so different, poles apart, then the one who showed up at Harry’s house with documents, flustered and sweet. Maybe it’s the drinks he’s had or maybe just the change of environment, but Harry likes this Louis, likes the danger radiating from him.

He’s mouthing something to Harry now, lips moving slowly. It takes them a couple tries, but there’s certainty in the end when Harry finally comprehends, “Come to me.” Louis beckons a finger at him and lifts his drink in invitation.

He has to look away from the intensity, has to bite back a grin, teeth digging into his pink-white flesh, heat rushing up to his face. He’s only reminded of Zayn when the latter grabs his clammy hands and pulls his arms to clasp around his neck, and Harry leans backwards against his chest with a sigh, slowing down their tempo.  The angle is a bit awkward since Harry’s taller, but they don’t mind, Zayn leaning over to hook his chin on the crook of his shoulder.

“You gonna leave me then?” Zayn asks, pressing the side of his face to Harry’s cheek.

“What?”

Zayn is breathing heavily into his ear, gripping his hips half-heartedly.  “Louis Tomlinson is calling you over and I know you’re dying to go,” he pants out. “Go.” He detangles himself from Harry’s sweaty body and pushes him away softly.

“No, no,” Harry frowns, stumbling. He interlocks his fingers with Zayn and pouts, “You—you have to come with m-me, you must, p-please.”

Zayn shakes his head, fallen quiff hanging in front of his eyes. “No,” he denies, looking over to where Louis is waiting. “No, I think you should go. I’ll go and try to find Niall, see what he’s up to.” He goes to pull away but Harry keeps a tight hold on their connected hands, yanking him back. “Harry, I—“

“You owe m-me!” Harry argues with wide eyes. “I need you now.”

Zayn just stares back silently, stumbling into him as someone pushes behind them, never breaking eye contact. It feels like he’s looking for something, something hidden in Harry’s eyes or written in invisible ink on his face, but those few seconds before he agrees feel like hours to Harry. He always crumbles underneath Zayn’s golden eyes.

He presses another sweet kiss to his friend’s mouth and wonders what Louis thinks of that, what he thinks about his close, close relationship with Zayn Malik. Harry knows people find it odd, even when they clear things up and state they’re just friends— it looks like _more_ , obviously, but it works for them. He’s never been in a serious relationship, but knows that all of Zayn’s previous relationships have been wary about their friendship, seeing Harry as a threat.  He’s had tentative hook-ups who figure his friendship is just more; afraid that bad boy Zayn will suddenly appear and claim what’s his.

As he pushes his way through the crowd, hands still intertwined with his mate’s, he questions if it’s a good idea to bring Zayn, considering the last time they met each other he acted like a jealous boyfriend, climbing all over him, hiding his face in his neck like he was claiming his territory. But it’s too late to doubt anything, and Louis is still sitting on the velvet sofa with the other couple, and there’s a guard leaning down hearing what he has to say. Soon, the security acknowledges them and pulls away the black velvet rope.

Harry wants to sit on Louis’ lap and order something to drink and marvel in his beauty, but Zayn has other plans. He pulls Harry back before the latter can reach the waiting man, and tugs his hand away. Harry can see how visibly tense his mate is, thin body rigid when only moments ago it was loose. His hands fidget at his sides and Harry reaches down and presses his thumb down on the little stencilled bird in-flight.

“You promised,” Harry leans to whisper in his ear, lips trembling. “Please.”

Zayn just looks away, back at the crowd on the first floor, and nods.

“Alright, lads?” Louis looks at them with concern, quirking his eyebrows at Zayn’s reluctance.

 Harry just nods and trudges forward, dragging the boy forward, not missing the way Louis’ eyes snap down at their connected hands. He wants to let go, doesn’t want the man to believe there’s something there when there isn’t, but he’s afraid that if he lets go of Zayn’s fingers, he’ll go floating up to the ceiling and never find a way back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at my tumblr tumblr [tumblr](http://www.inhalethepuredark.tumblr.com)


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